


follow me into the endless night

by the-horologist (talesofbohemia)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, post 8.01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 16:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18553702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talesofbohemia/pseuds/the-horologist
Summary: “Are you worried about me?” she asks wryly. It’s a ridiculous thought.But Gendry sighs, serious as she’s ever seen him. “’Course I am.” He pauses then, glances in the direction of her knee. “Is that allowed?”





	follow me into the endless night

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Meet Me in the Woods" by Lord Huron, which I have on a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/12131595030/playlist/7l5A6vIn0SImQKYbrzKsy4?si=Z6wbYqX6SgO4XupwIDM7fg) along with other songs that make me emo about this ship.

Arya shows up at the forge late in the evening, when the sun has set and the fires are burning low and the rest of the castle tries to rest a few hours before the dead come. She doesn’t expect him to be done with the spear. She only gave him the drawing this morning and the smiths have had their hands full already preparing for the battle. She’ll probably have to figure out another way to accomplish her goal.

When Gendry opens the door and sees her, he breaks into a grin, then heads back into the forge, leaving her to follow.

“Took you long enough,” he calls over his shoulder as he goes to his workbench. “It was done this afternoon.”

“And you didn’t think to send anyone to inform me?” she asks in a lofty voice, ignoring the way her stomach flips knowing he’d set aside his other work to make her spear. “You made it awfully fast, are you sure the craftsmanship will hold up?”

Gendry just chuckles as he turns back to her, spear in hand. He holds it out. “See for yourself.”

She takes the blade, careful to keep the look of skepticism on her face. The duel heads are balanced perfectly. She thought that the dragonglass on one end would make it difficult to manage, but Gendry weighted the wick on the other end so that it balances out when the pieces are locked together. Arya pulls the ends apart and the shafts of the individual pieces are evenly sized handles. She gives each end a few test swings, and they feel like extensions of her arms. Perfect.

“And,” Gendry says, reaching for the wicked end. 

She passes it back to him. He gives it a quick strike on the workbench, and the wick ignites in flames. He hands it back to her, and she can feel the heat of the flame, but it doesn’t burn her hand.

“Well?” he asks.

She snuffs out the flame on the workbench and shrugs. “It’ll work.”

His grin grows at her put upon attitude, and that’s certainly different isn’t it? Maybe finding out you were the only surviving descendant of a king no one wants anymore helped put the pointlessness of nobility into perspective.

“Well, if that will be all, m’lady,” Gendry says, turning back to his work. She’s pleased his tone gives away that he doesn’t actually want her to leave.

“It won’t be, actually.” He glances at her over his shoulder as he goes to pick up more dragonglass. “You can’t still be working, can you? Haven’t you heard? The end of the world will be here by morning. You should rest up to prepare.”

She plops herself down onto Gendry’s cot in the corner with a blithe smile, and is pleased to see she’s finally getting to him. He looks incredulous. She produces some bread and cheese from her satchel and dares him to join her with her eyes.

“Haven’t eaten, have you?” Arya asks. “I didn’t see you in the hall at dinner.”

His brow furrows just a bit as he slowly approaches the cot. “Was I missed?”

She looks back at him without responding. His gaze searches hers as he seems to know that that isn’t a question she’s going to answer. Whatever he sees in her face, it must be enough. He sits down next to her on the cot, close enough that when she leans back and relaxes, their legs touch.

“So,” Gendry begins, leaning back against the wall too. “What’s the plan for the spear?”

“Can’t tell you that,” she says with a grin. “But I’d say if you guess the worst thing you can think of, you’ll probably be right.”

Gendry looks like he wants to smile, but can’t quite get his mouth to cooperate. “I figured you’d say something like that.”

“Are you worried about me?” she asks wryly. It’s a ridiculous thought.

But Gendry sighs, serious as she’s ever seen him. “’Course I am.” He pauses then, glances in the direction of her knee. “Is that allowed?”

Arya huffs out a breath that’s more a growl than anything else. Aren’t they past this yet? “How many times can I say, I don’t care about being highborn—”

He grabs her hand and whatever she was going to say is lost to the feeling of his rough warm skin pressed into hers.

“I know that,” he murmurs. “That’s the point. The, the _rules_ , are different to you. I just want to know what I can—what you want.”

 _Everything_ , is the first thing that comes to mind. And what a terrifying thought it is, she’s not even sure where it comes from. That is a thought she would have teased Sansa for having when they were young, before they had left Winterfell, before they had grown. Before she’d met Gendry.

But she can’t say that, not now. She isn’t sure she’ll ever be able to say that.

“It is,” she says instead, because it’s easier to answer that question than try to verbalize the thrumming in her chest that comes when she looks at him. “It’s allowed.”

The look he gives her makes her stomach twist itself into knots and she becomes suddenly aware how warm the forge is.

“What is not allowed,” she adds, her tone brisk as she shakes herself from the weighted moment, staring at him defiantly, “is for you or anyone else to expect me to not do what I can do during the battle. I’m going to use that spear, and I’m going to use it on the Night King. I’m going to do whatever I have to do to get as close to him as possible. And then I’m going to take the fucker down.”

There’s so much in his eyes as he looks back at her—worry, and fear, and pride, and so much love it’s hard to meet his gaze. But she needs him to know she’s doing this. If everything she went through is going to be more than a nightmare and maybe a horrible mistake, she’s got to use it to do something that matters.

Gendry nods, breaking their stare. “Aye,” he says gruffly. “I dunno what happened to you, Arya, but, now or before, I’d never expect anything less.”

And she hasn’t realized but this is the first time she’s heard Gendry say her name in years. It still shocks her, sometimes, hearing her name. She hears it all the time now, from her family, but she has only ever been Arya to them. Ever since King’s Landing she’s been so many people, even with him, and for a moment she just wants to sit in this feeling of being known by him, but he isn’t done.

“Just stay safe, alright? I know you don’t need protecting. But I thought you were dead, for _years_. When I found out you were alive, that you had made it home—” He cuts himself off with a shake of the head, but Arya knows that feeling, knows how it feels to believe so deeply that everyone you love is gone, carry it around with you until you need to be someone else, someone who never lost anyone.

“That goes both ways, you know,” she says urgently.

He turns to look at her, the question on his face, and Arya finds she can’t say the words. _I’m worried about you too_ , she wants to say. But it’s so hard now, still, even after being home for so long, to say something like that. To say something meaningful and not be using it in order to be someone else. To say what she feels, as Arya Stark.

In the end, she tightens her grip on his hand and hopes he will understand what she can say.

“Whatever you have to do, do it,” Arya says. “Don’t die.”

Their faces are so close like this, sitting with their arms and legs pressed into each other and their fingers interlocked. It is an impossible promise to ask him to make. 

She doesn’t know if Death is her god anymore. She knows He’s there. He’s sent His army to come for them after all. Maybe she’d chosen wrong, maybe she should still be serving Him, and He’d get vengeance against her come morning. But looking into Gendry’s eyes she remembers, finally, what she’d forgotten in Braavos that she can say to Death.

“I won’t,” Gendry says. “I won’t leave you again.”

And then she pulls him down until his lips meet hers.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I’ve published in over four years. I promised myself on Monday I’d put it up before the 8.02 premiere and it’s gone as far as I can get it to go. Thanks to Steph and everyone on tumblr who pushed me to finish it.
> 
> I tried to figure out what the weapon Arya asked Gendry to build is supposed to be and the end opposite the dragonglass made me think of a torch even though I’m 85% sure it’s not a torch. Please just pretend that torches are self-igniting like matches and that having a flaming hand dagger would actually help while fighting white walkers and not just be incredibly unwieldy for the person using it.


End file.
